


Tomorrow will be Kinder (I Promise)

by SummerLeighWind



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe, Brother Feels, Brother-Sister Relationships, Crying, F/M, Female!Scotland, Gen, Implied Underage, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Kid Fic, Little Brothers, Mentions of Wales and Ireland, Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Resolution, They're practically cannon, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerLeighWind/pseuds/SummerLeighWind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking down on the child, England's confronted with a familiar strong jaw, messy red braid, and jade green eyes. Blinking, England whispers, "Scotland? Wilma?"</p><p>The girl stills for a moment, glaring up with hard eyes. "Yeah, who're ya?" she demands.</p><p>Coming down to his knees, England can't stop the horrified expression that comes to his feature. "Oh, Wil, you don't know?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

England coughs as he peers through the haze of smoke that fills his basement. He hopes Scotland isn't dead down there. It would only mean more work for him, and as much as his siblings seem to think he enjoys the paperwork, England would really rather be reading Shakespeare, Dickens, or Rowling by a fire with a cuppa in hand. Waving a hand in front of his face to get rid of the thinning smoke blocking his vision, England takes one step down the creaky stairs.

"Are you down here Scotland?" he calls, squinting in hopes of seeing something in the dimly lit room. An object whistles through the air. Dodging thanks to the reflexes he's built from years of war, England knows it would have squarely hit him in the head if he weren't as well trained. He hears whatever it was that flew by shatter behind him. Twisting his head around, England sees that the object was a bottle. Now, it's broken and oozing some acidic concoction–if the way his carpet sizzles is anything to go by, anyway. More than a little irritated, England shouts, "Oi! What was that for you wanker?"

A cut-off scream comes from below, it is soon followed by running feet and several more breakable items flying at him. Dodging nearly every one, he is almost against one side of the stairwell when a small body attempts to brush past him. "Hey!" England cries as he manages to grab what he thinks is an arm.

"Lemme go!" the tiny creature screams, lashing out with feet and teeth.

"Ah! Hey!" England yips, shimmying around the fighting figure.

"I'll kill ya! I swear ta ya!" they–a girl–yell.

Looking down at the girl, England is confronted with a familiar strong jaw, a messy red braid, and jade green eyes. Blinking, England whispers, "Scotland? Wilma?"

The girl stills for a moment, glaring up with hard eyes. "Yeah, who're ya?" she demands.

Coming down to his knees, England can't stop the horrified expression that overcomes his features. "Oh, Wil, don't youknow?"

The girl scowls more and crosses her arms. " _Should_ I?" she sneers.

Point at himself, he whispers, "I'm _England._ "

The girl scoffs. "He's just a _runt_."

Sighing, England asks gently, "Do you know where you are?" As an uncertain gleam comes to the child's eye, England presses, "Do you usually find yourself in people's basements? Does _anything_ seem familiar to you?"

Scotland doesn't speak for a long while, her no more than ten-year-old face searching her surroundings and then, England's face. Finally, her young hands reach out to his eyes, tracing them with tenderness that is unusual to his sister. "I 'member those," she breathes, "I 'member that green."

England nods at this. "Okay, that's something," he said. "Do you trust me enough to believe me when I say you were much older before?" he inquires. Scotland's always been so doubtful of intentions and any good a person may perchance do (especially for her).

Her nose scrunches in a mixture of hesitation and irritation. "Duh, ya were barely waist-high the last time I saw ya," she grumbles.

England chuckles. "I'm glad." He sighs. "Now, why don't you come with me and we'll talk a bit more in the kitchen over tea."

Scotland seems to consider this. Soon enough she nods her head and says, "Yeah, fer a bit."

* * *

Sipping her tea–which she really likes–Scotland swings her legs beneath the table and answers her younger (or is it older?) brother's questions in shrugs and high and low hums. Sitting up a little straighter, Scotland asks her first question since they settled in the kitchen. "Where are Ireland an' Wales?"

Setting his mug down, England turns his head thoughtfully. Scotland easily picks up that he's deciding what to tell her. "Well," he begins, "they have their own homes–you do too–but you were over the other night on business and–oh, _Northern_ Ireland _does_ live here. You'll meet him later," he explains.

The girl considers the information carefully. Her brothers and her don't live together anymore, but that's not really a surprise, she supposes. They're all _grown,_ after all. So, she decides to ask more about this new brother. " _Northern Ireland,_ huh?" she remarks inquisitively.

England nods. "I'll find you a map later," he says. "You see, we once you, me, Wales and Ireland were all one big nation called the United Kingdom. A while back, Ireland decided to separate. However, a fraction of Ireland ended up staying with the UK. So, it took on its own personification." He smiles then. "He's called North," he tells her.

Scotland studies the smile that lingers on her brother's face. He seems strangely fond of this younger nation. Though, he has been looking at her with a similar smile since they came up for tea too, perhaps England just has a thing for young nations? Hunching back into her seat, she hopes the interest he has is innocent, not like–

"What do they all look like now?" she demands a bit too forcefully in an attempt to push away the stream of displeasing memories that are starting to come to her mind's eye.

England's face lights up. "I can _show_ you," he says, getting up. The blond then walks over to the counter and brings over a strange, shiny, flat object. Flipping it open, it makes a whirring noise as England taps his fingers on the funnily lettered squares. "Here," he murmurs, pushing it at her.

Fumbling with it, Scotland only glances at the standing part once she's fixed the oddly light book-thing the way it was in front of England. She gasps. It's a small group, but she _recognizes_ them. She sees England, frowning in a chair, Wales just as lithe as England, but far calmer, seated a little higher on the arm of said chair beside England. Wales even grins mischievously at whoever painted the picture and then there's Ireland smirking and tall, hand squeezing England's opposite shoulder and next to him–it's her! Taking in the womanly figure and smiling face, Scotland dreams longingly of the person she will be, looking a little off to the side, she notices a skinny boy standing half a foot away from the rest of them fiddling with something (a rock? A toy?) in his hands.

"That's us?" she whispers awe.

England smiles at her. "It is," he answers.

Scotland feels tears pool in her eyes. Chewing her lip, she scrubs them away with her arm and says fiercely, "I _want_ that, I want it _so bad_."

Her brother's hand reaches across the table and rests it lightly on her own. "You'll have it," he promises. "It took a great deal of time and effort, but we're nearly the family I think we all want," England explains to her.

Getting up from her chair, Scotland, in a rare show of affection, comes around the table and hugs her little brother that isn't so little around the neck and begs, "Please don't be lyin' _._ "

England pats her small back, but doesn't say a word. Distrusting what experience has taught her, Scotland chooses to believe his lack of verbal reassurance and in favor of the physical kind means England wants her to feel that this family of hers is solid, based here in reality–not in sounds that fade and can be forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

As she helps her brother with the dishes from their "dinner" (if that's what it could be called, the stew had been downright _vile_ ), Scotland can't stop herself from thinking about the way her is treating her. England's kind, he hasn't yelled at her once since they came to the kitchen, nor does he touch her if she's not looking at him, and his eyes are always on her. Putting the last, now dried, cup from the dishes down on the table-like surface beside what England called the "sink", Scotland turns a piercing look on her brother.

Taking in his face, she notices that it some of his boyhood still clings to it. Scotland can still see the traces of the pudgy, dirty cheeks she has to constantly clean of snot and saliva. Furrowing her brow, she asks, "Why are ya bein' so nice? _I'm_ a terrible sister, I yell at ya an' I let Ireland an' Wales throw things at ya ta." She hides her now trembling hands by drying a plate with the rag England supplied her with. Then, in no more than a whisper, she adds, "I throw stuff at ya ta, sometimes."

England puts a fork aside and stares down at her with an expression Scotland can't understand. Slowly, England reaches out to her and lays a hand on top of Scotland's head. She tenses, waiting for him to grab her hair, to pull it, to force her to her knees, but all he does is smooth away the straying strands of her braid (it makes her want to cry). A wistfully sad smile on his face, England says, "I've had many little brothers and sisters over the years."

Scotland waits as he falls silent and watches avidly as England eyes disappear to a different time. Shaking his head a little, England says, "Since we were young, I have come to learn how _hard_ children are. You come to care so much about them, but even so, it matters so little when your upset or angry or…" he trails off. When he doesn't say anything for a long while, Scotland grows impatient and urges him on with a tug to his sleeve. "Sorry, Wil. Where was I? Ah, hm…oh! It doesn't matter if you love them when you're in a poor mood. It's all about being able to be in control of yourself. I was older than you when I started being an older brother and that helped me very much, I think. But you? You were just a baby. No one could have expected you to not let your frustrations get the better of you."

Honing in on what feels like an insult to her sensibilities, Scotland huffs, "Not a baby!"

England chuckles, fingers threading through her hair (ruining her braid, but she doesn't care; it's too nice). "That was silly of me to say, wasn't it? Of course you don't think you are. To me, though? You seem so very young, almost as good as a baby in some ways. To be saddled with three little brothers that all want your attention at such a young age…Well, that's not easy."

He looks to her then, seeking her confirmation.

Scotland, though, doesn't give it a straight answer. "It's more than tha'. Ya look a lot like Mama Britannia, ya know? Sometimes it's hard when ya cry an' stuff an' all I can think is Mama wouldn't be so disgusting an' cry at everything', but, then, I 'member _yer_ jus' a baby."

"Yes," he murmurs, "Babies are difficult."

"Yeah." Scotland sighs, putting the last of the dishes aside.

Once he finishes drying his hands, England offers one to her. "Would you like to come read with me in the living room?"

Scotland blushes and chews the end of her braid, it's not that she doesn't _want_ to; it's that she doesn't know _how_. She'd _like_ to know how, but watching out for her little brothers leaves little time for learning and, then, there's the fact she's only a _girl–_

"You haven't learned yet, have you?" he asks.

Scotland shakes her head.

Smiling brilliantly, England says, "Well, that's not a problem!" He suggests, "I could teach you if you like."

Scotland judges England. He _seems_ earnest–eager, even–slipping her hand into his, she gives it a serious yank.

"I want to."

Nodding, England leads her to a room just off the main one and hums contemplatively. "I have an excellent set of children's books to choose from," looking down at her happily, he tells her, "First we'll have to teach you the alphabet, I think."

Scotland nods. "'Kay."

Taking a seat in a worn armchair in the middle of the room crammed with books, England pats his lap, inviting her to sit with him. Heart picking up pace, Scotland is fearful for a moment. But, then, she takes hold of all her determination and settles herself down on her brother's bony thighs. Wrapping an arm around her waist, England stretches the other out and picks up a glossy black rectangle. Fingers dancing across the black, it comes to life and images and words dash and speed dizzily across the rectangle until Scotland covers it with both hands.

"What _is_ this?" she demands.

England stills, then he chuckles and says, "I haven't explained much of anything to you, have I?"

Scotland doesn't answer, instead, she waits for him to go on.

Brushing her smaller hands away from the smooth surface, England does his best to explain to her, "This is a tablet, it's connected to this giant library called the 'internet' and with the internet, we can learn anything from the alphabet to what the weather's like in China at this very moment."

The girl wrinkles her nose. "What's China?"

Resting his chin on her head, her brother explains, "He's an eastern nation." After a pause, he suggests, "I could draw up a map now if you like."

Scotland shakes her head and nestles her head more firmly under her brother's chin as she pokes the screen. "Alphabet. Now," she demands.

England's chest vibrates with quiet laughter. "Alright," he agrees. Pulling up a row of letters, the blond points to the first one. "This is A as in apple, okay?"

Thrumming her small heels against his shins, Scotland leans in scrutinizing the image. "A as in apple…" she repeats.

His finger flows to the next. "B for brother," he says.

"Brother," she whispers. Staring up at her brother in a wondrous way, Scotland can't help but wish for England to be her older brother and not just her grown up baby one.


	3. Chapter 3

England and Scotland spend hours pouring over the English alphabet and beginner primers. It leaves them satisfied and warm. Eventually, once Scotland has successfully sight-read Beatrix Potter's _Peter Rabbit_ with little more than an occasional stutter or stumble, England offers to read to _her_. She hesitates in giving an answer, gazing up at her brother through her sooty lashes. Taking her lip between her teeth, she nods.

Smiling broadly, England pats Scotland's knee, asking her to get up. Reluctantly, Scotland slips off his warm lap and waits with crossed arms as England strides to a particular shelf of his library and runs his fingers over the many spines. "I've never been very certain of your preferences," he says. "But, then again, you've always seemed to detest anything to do with reading."

Staring down at her toes, Scotland tries not to be burdened by this new information. Surely England doesn't mean to hurt her. Not after he's been so _nice,_ (but hadn't _he_ been nice first too?) England then makes an especially pleased noise and turns away from the shelf with what appears to be a well-loved book in his hand. "How does _Peter Pan_ sound? It's a rather spectacular story of magical lands, faeries, pirates and flying children," he tells her.

Scotland bobs her head, eager to please. "Sounds lovely," she murmurs, mimicking England's speech pattern.

The smile he wears is almost shy. It's strange, Scotland thinks. Guiding her back to his side, England returns to his still warm armchair and accepts her relieved body without question. Cracking open the thick volume, England begins to read the blur of words in hushed tones and as Scotland settles, her eyes drift closed. She lets herself become mesmerized by the siblings that remind her of herself and two oldest brothers; strangely, though, the spritely Peter Pan reminds her of England. A little boy so magical not even the girl he claims as his can truly tie him to her.

* * *

A number of hours later, when darkness has more than just settled over them, but engulfed them, England carries his tiny sister back to her room, tucking her into bed. He doesn't specifically remember having any youth potions in his stores, but he does know he had an aging potion or two on hand. All in all, Scotland should be back to her irritating self within a few days. Even so, he should by her an outfit or two, he thinks. At least so she can look like she belongs to this era.

Planting an affectionate kiss to her brow, England steps away and stares down uncomfortably at the innocent face. He would have reached out to touch her once more, just to make sure she's _real,_ but the sound of feet lumbering into his home tells him North's returned from his weekend away at Ireland's.

Taking to the stairs, England watches passively as North's wiry build (so displeasingly like his own and Wales) fumble with the broken lock and kick the door. "I haven't gotten it fixed yet," he calls to his brother.

North startles and swerves around to glare up at England. "What are ye doin' up? Ye're _never_ up this late," he says.

England shrugs. "Can't a fellow welcome home his little brother?" he asks far too innocently.

Northern Ireland glowers even more. "'Gain, what are ye doin' up?" he demands.

"Really, Patrick," England chides, but truthfully, he doesn't mind. His brother isn't the empathetic, blissful boy he once was, he's a _teenager_ with all it entails; the restlessness, aggression, and unfocused blame. North can spend every weekend he wants with Ireland, disappear from the home from dusk until late into the twilight, but as long as he returns to _him,_ England doesn't mind (or, at least, that's what he tells himself).

"Well?" North asks again.

England tangles his fingers in his blond hair and scowls right back. "If I don't make you explain yourself every, why should I have to explain myself to you?"

North's face freckled face reddens and he looks ripe to breakout in indignant cries and half-reasoned arguments when a quiet voice stops him. "England?" Scotland calls from her room's doorway. Swiftly turning to the little girl, England approaches and sweeps her up in his arms (he's not without strength yet). "What is it lovely?" he questions softly.

Sleepily, the girl frowns. England can see the workings of something desperately fearful behind her eyes before she can even speak. "I–" she stops and then pleads, "Can I sleep with ya?"

Kissing her cheek, England agrees without hesitation. "If that's what you wish, Wil."

Fixing her head under his chin, Scotland sighs. "Okay."

"Who's that?" their younger brother growls from a few feet away. When England turns, he sees envy burning in his meadow-green eyes.

"Just Scotland," England explains, "she had a bit of an accident, is all."

Taking a wary step towards them, North peers into the dazed girl's face. "Is that really ye Scotland?" he whispers.

"'M Scotland, but I don' 'member ya," she says, hiding a yawn in England's neck.

The teenager looks up at England with plain confusion written on his face. Hoisting the girl a bit more comfortably in his arms, England elaborates for her. "She's only remembers up to the age she is now."

"Oh." North blinks.

Fingers running soothingly through his sister's hair, England says gently, "She should be asleep."

North flushes and drops his stare to his feet. "Sorry, I'll–I'll just go ta bed."

Reaching out, England pats his younger brother's shoulder. "It's alright Patrick, you didn't know she was sleeping," he tells the boy.

This understanding has always irked Northern Ireland, but tonight, he accepts it with a relieved nod. Eyeing this sister he's never seen so vulnerable or small before, he offers quietly, "I could help ye out until she's better, if ye want."

England pauses, it seems this situation won't be such a waste after all. "We'd like that," he says, tears pooling in his eyes.

Embarrassed, North shifts his eyes away and complains, "Don't get all sentimental on me."

Wiping away the forming tears, England chuckles and denies that the wetness was ever there. "I'm not."

Frowning steadily at the floor, the teenager says, "I'll see ye a' breakfast."

England smiles brightly. "I'm looking forward to it."

They part.


	4. Chapter 4

Fixing a pot of tea, England decides to hold off on making breakfast and let North cook. As much as he hates to admit it, the boy's cooking is better than his own. Pouring a mug of tea, England drops into his chair and sighs happily at the silence as he pulls out his Ipad to read the morning's news. Flipping through it, he reads the interesting bits and wades through some of the more tedious (but no less important, he reminds himself) by the time he's half-way through, he hears the sound of feet on the stairs. Looking up, he catches sight of his brother's copper hair and smiles.

"Good morning North," he greets.

The teenager grunts. "I'm makin' breakfast." He scowls defensively, as if expecting England to argue.

Putting his Ipad down, England nods. "That's fine," he says to the younger nation.

"We got eggs?" North demands, rummaging through the fridge.

"Bottom left, as always," England answers, taking a gulp of his lukewarm tea.

"I'll scramble 'em an' make some toast," North says.

"Thank you, I'm sure Scotland will like that," England replies, getting up from his seat.

"What? Ye're not havin' none?" North demands grumpily.

"Maybe later," England says. "But I'm going out to by an outfit or two for Wilma. What if we need to leave? I can't take her out dressed as she is," he explains.

"Ye're leavin' me _alone_ with her?" North cries.

Walking back towards the stairs, England turns and gives the teenager a half-reassuring, half-impish smile. "You'll be fine, Patrick."

"She's not only a _kid_ but a _girl-kid_!" Northern Ireland stresses.

Huffing with a bit of impatience, England glares at his brother briefly. "Look, all you need to do is feed her and then maybe read with her until I get back." At the boy's dubious frown, England's lips twitch and he adds, "She likes reading."

"Wa-ait!" The teenager whines, but England's gone up the stairs and come back with a jacket fixed on his shoulders.

Patting his brother's head, England promises, "No more than two hours, okay?"

Pouting, Ireland whispers, "What if she doesn't like me?"

England stares at him sympathetically. "She'll like you fine." His gaze turns distant and he mumbles, "She always has."

Warily, Northern Ireland watches for one of the dark moods that pulls his brother down so often, but not today. Forcing a smile that is so bright it could blind, England ruffles North's hair and heads out the door, swinging his car keys on his finger. "Two hours! Tops!" he shouts back one last time, closing the door behind him with a firm click.

Sighing, Northern Ireland gets to work.

* * *

Just as he finishes putting the food on two plates, he hears the patter of small feet. Glancing up, he sees Scotland rubbing at her eyes and leaning against the wall.

"'Lo," he whispers.

"Where's England?" she asks.

Putting two plates on the table, Ireland puts a smile on his lips and answers far too cheerily for the morning. "He's gone out ta get ye clothes!"

Plucking at the shapeless fabric that covers her, Scotland frowns. "I _have_ clothes," she says.

North nods. "Yeah, but not ones that'd fit in today."

Cocking her head to the side, the girl asks, "How long am I goin' ta be little?"

Beckoning her to the table, North doesn't answer at first. Instead, he wracks his brain, trying to remember if England ever told him how long Scotland would be a little girl. "Ye know," he mutters, "I don' think England's told me."

Poking at her breakfast, Scotland doesn't look at him when she asks quietly, "He'll be back soon?"

Exhaling, North slumps forward on his hand and pets her unruly red locks (she shirks away). "Yeah, he'll be back soon."

Stabbing a particularly big piece of egg with her knife, Scotland scowls at her plate. "Good."

Slumping back in his chair, North agrees "Good for ye an' me both, sister-mine."

An hour and a half of awkward silence later, England returns with a bag in each hand. Popping up from the floor in front of the telly, Scotland rushes England with big eyes. "What ya get me?" she demands, inspecting the bags excitedly.

 **Putting** them in front of the girl, England smiles with his hands on his hips. "Go on, take a look!" he urges.

Scotland hesitates for a moment and studies England's face, only actually touching the bag when England grins and nods at the bags a second time. Digging through them, Scotland begins to sort the items into two piles. Eventually, when they are empty she pulls away.

Pointing to a pair of yellow plaid wellingtons and bright red jeans she says, "I like those."

England hums. "That's good, but you need a shirt if you want to wear those."

Looking to her other pile, Scotland shifts through the clothes and indifferently picks up a black pull-over. "This?"

"Yes," England says. "Go on, get changed!"

He chuckles, giving her a little push towards the bathroom. Items firmly in her grip, the girl giddily walks to the bathroom, closing the door enough behind her that they could only see a sliver of bathroom light. A few minutes later, the girls steps out, dressed in her clothes. She blushes and drops her gaze down to her sweet little boots.

"You look lovely!" England gushes, making a twirling motion with his finger. Obligingly, Scotland turns in a tight little circle, flush darkening here and there as England makes happy noises. "Perfect!" England smirks. "Come here, let me put your hair in a braid," he tells her.

Skipping to his side, Scotland lets North's brother part her hair into two little braid-pigtails and tie them off with green bands. "You wouldn't ever guess you didn't belong here!" England says with much satisfaction.

Scotland's eyes light up and, with unexpected reluctance, she asks, "How long am I goin' ta be like this?"

England frowns. "What do you mean?"

"A lil'lass," Scotland mumbles.

Tapping his chin, England shrugs. "I'm not sure, though, you should be yourself again by the end of the week."

"Okay," the girl accepts. Shyly, she reaches out and hugs her brother. "Thanks fer buyin' me this stuff."

Patting her head, England stares down fondly. "It's not a problem, Wil."

"Can we read a new book?" she begs.

England smirks. "Of course, how about _The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe_?" he asks. Glancing up to North, he says slyly, "I remember it being a favorite of North's when he was younger."

The girl looks to him. "Really?" she questions.

Shifting uncomfortably, North nods. "Yeah, I guess I liked it…"

"Ya'll listen with me then," Scotland decides. "England's a good reader," she says.

"It's 'cause he's had a lot of practice," North replies a bit sourly.

Scotland blinks nervously and England hushes the teenager with a quiet, "That's enough." Staring down the boy, England demands, "Are you going to read with us?"

Shoving his hands in his pockets, North glances away. "Yeah, fine."

Getting the book, the trio soon settle comfortably on the couch, England locked between two warm bodies as the words flow from his lips in an enchantment stronger than any spell.


	5. Chapter 5

She wishes it could stay like this. Just the three of them all alone, with this England she doesn't know, but loves more than the one she does know (does this make her a bad sister?), with his expressive green eyes, gentle smiles, knowledge of braids and even his awful cooking. With this new brother, Northern Ireland, who for all his foulness of temper, grumbling and complaining, somehow, still knows how to make her feel important and cared for with the way he tries to connect with her, speaking to her with careful and earnest words.

But, then, she should have know just wishing for such a thing would shatter the little haven she's imagined.

* * *

" _Mon ami~_ " a voice calls from the front of England's home.

Glancing up from the puzzle the three of them are doing, Scotland asks, "Who's that?"

North and England share a tense glance before a smile plasters itself on England's face (Scotland knows not to trust it). "Do you remember France, Wilma?" he asks softly. "The nation across the channel?" he adds at her silence.

Scotland does. She remembers the delicate boy from across the channel, the one who couldn't be any older than Ireland, the one who, in all his childish wisdom, tried to convince her England would he safer with him. But Scotland knew better, he was no stronger than her; they were one in the same. If he couldn't protect himself (though, neither could she) how could he possibly protect England better than her? He couldn't. Scotland will do her damnedest to keep all her brothers safe _and_ together. Even if sometimes she thinks she hates her little brother (it's not fair, why's he look so much like Mumma?).

Meeting her brother's eyes, the girl nods. "I do."

" _Mon Angleterre_! I know you're 'ome! I see you're car parked out 'ere!" France shouts through the door, sounding torn between amusement and irritation.

Getting to his feet, North grumbles, "He's not goin' ta leave."

England sighs run a hand through his already messy hair. "Take Scotland upstairs and keep her occupied for a few hours… Hopefully he'll be bored by then."

Stubbornly, Scotland puts herself between her brothers. "No," she says, "I _will_ see France." She makes it a statement, but both of her brothers faces twist with unvoiced arguments.

Kneeling down, England puts a hand on her narrow shoulder. "Are you sure Wilma?" he asks.

Blowing a loose strand of red hair from her face, Scotland nods. "Yeah, more sure 'bout this than anythin' else so far."

Those familiar green eyes are pained, but don't fight her choice. "Okay," England whispers. Looking up to North, her brother orders, "Get the door."

The teenager leaves, when he returns, a flamboyant France has an arm around his shoulders and is chattering away at the frowning boy. When he sees England, he abandons North to drape himself on England. " _Mon lapin_!" he coos. Glancing behind the Englishman's shoulder, the Frenchman's eyes widen at the sight of her. Scrambling back from England, he hisses, " _Écosse_!"

Scotland steps towards him, feeling a bit more disappointed than sad. She whispers, "You're just like him."

Blue eyes blazing with cold fire, France seems to understands immediately. " _Non!_ " he denies.

Angry now, Scotland stomps her foot and shouts, "What do ya call it then!? Ya force yer way in an' then ya go throwin' yerself on people!"

Northern Ireland and England's eyes follow the two's undisclosed argument with no small amount of worry. Face tight and hands in heavy fists, France shakes his head. " _Non_ , never, I've never…"

Scotland crosses her arms and stares at him.

Struggling with a past long put away, France falls to his knees in front of the child. " _Never._ I've never taken advantage of another to exert my power," he says in little more than a whisper to Scotland.

Looking him pointedly, Scotland questions, "Did he ever do it again? After the first time?"

France opens his mouth, but appears to struggle with his answer for a moment. "… _O_ _ui,_ " he says.

Scotland gives a hiccupping giggle. "Good ta know I wasn't the only one." Then with sudden ferocity, she demands, "What about England? Did he ever get England?"

Northern Ireland looks to his older brother, but England seems as much at a loss as him; so, instead, he simply waits for France to go on. The Frenchman laughs. " _Non,_ a wish fulfilled for both of us, I suppose," he replies with something like triumph.

"Why not?" Scotland asks, "Ya said he liked pretty things."

The older nation frowns. "You know why," he murmurs, "we gave ourselves to him."

Scotland takes a shuddering breath. "I–" she stops, fingers wringing the hem of her sweater. Eyes so very big and desperate, she asks, "Does it mean I'm a good sister? Do good sisters give themselves up fer their siblings?"

Horror dawns upon England's features and, with a sudden surge of motion, he is at Scotland and France's side. Taking her in his arms, he looks between his not perfect, but dependable sister and his older, brother-like figure. "Don't tell me you two–"

"It 'ad nothing to do with you at first," France says, cutting him off. Eyes shifting to the floor, he mutters, "It just turned into protecting you once his eyes found yours."

Tears quickly coating his lashes, England asks, "Why did you do it? Why did you do that to yourselves?"

Little hands slithering up him until it rests on his cheek, Scotland's eyes meet the shimmering ones of England. "Because we love ya," she says.

His tears spill then, crying a lot harder than he thought he would, England whimpers, "You were _children_! How-How could he _do_ that?"

France sighs and brings both England and Scotland into his arms. Resting his chin on England's blond head, he glances up to see North hovering with wide eyes. Gesturing for him join, France lets the teenager cling to his arm as kisses England's head. "It is what it is, _mon lapin,_ " he says.

"You're supposed to protect– _nurture–_ children, not hurt them," England sniffles.

Face muffled in her brother's chest, Scotland's voice still manages to carry. "That's why we protected you."

"What about ye guys? Who protected ye?" North asks, but no one has an answer for him.


	6. Chapter 6

Children long ago passed out in front of a telly after a marathon of Disney and Pixar Movies, France and England slip away silently into the kitchen. Strangely, neither speaks as France whips up a quick batch of scones and as England makes himself tea and coffee for France. When the drinks are warm and the treats in the oven, the two gravitate to the kitchen table England and his siblings had only sat at this morning. Passing the Frenchman his mug, England takes a swallow of his tea (not minding the scalding he gets).

Not daring to look at each other in more than glances, the two don't say anything for a long time. Not until France has gotten up and set the perfectly cooked scones out to cool. Once he sits back down, and drinks all of his now lukewarm coffee, France initiates eye-contact with England. Nervously, England attempts to break it, but France doesn't allow it. "'Ow long will she…" he stops for a moment, face oddly contorted as he asks, "be a _child_?"

England arches his back and throws his arms above his head in a manner of stretching away the weariness the question brings. He briefly hopes France will let it go, but with a quick look in France's direction, he realizes that this isn't something he will. Sighing away the aching pain it brings, he answers, "A day or two more at the least, a week at most."

France hums. "Perhaps you should take a visit to one of your brothers," he says, "if anyone else comes visiting, like myself, I can't promise they won't say something to Wilma or that they won't do something to 'er that will upset her."

England's fingers twist in his shirt (it's such a stupid, childish, habit). "You don't truly think they'd try and upset her, do you?" he fusses earnestly.

Blue eyes glimmer with an emotion England can't quite identify on the Frenchman, France says, "We did are best raising our colonies, but some of them…" France shrugs. "They are a bit too mean-spirited for my liking."

England's shoulders slump with this heavy knowing. "I've noticed that too," he admits. Looking up at his elder with pained eyes, he whispers, "You think they'll hurt her like he did?"

France drops his gaze to the table. "I don't know," he growls.

Miserable, England says, "It wasn't just you two either, was it?"

Brows knitting and jaw clenched, France replies, "I 'ave my suspicions." Glancing up, he whispers, "I know Portugal was also one of his victims for certain–Spain witnessed it from behind a tree."

England kneads at his eyes, the worst kind of headache forming. "I hate to think how young some of you must have been," he comments.

A strange smile sweeps across France's face. "Not young enough, obviously." He chuckles.

Perturbed, England stares at him. "I'll not question you anymore," he says.

Relaxing a fraction, France smiles a little kinder. " _Merci_." Standing up, he brushes imaginary dust from his clothing and remarks, "It's time I be going." Still straightening out his clothes, he orders England to, "Tell your sister she was a good sister–not perfect–but good where it counted."

Following the Frenchman out, the Englishman waves him goodbye. "See you, Francis."

Smiling up the cloudy nighttime sky, France nods, his back to England. " _Au revior,_ Arthur," he echoes. Even so, the older nation doesn't move. "I truly think you should consider visiting a different house for a time," he insists.

Nodding his head, England begins to close the door and quietly concludes with, "I'll sleep on it, Francis."

The Frenchman begins to walk away and England shuts the door with a clank, attempting to lock it, but cursing when he remembers it is broken.

* * *

Coming to his living room, he stares down at the two equally freckled faces and thinks sadly of today's revelations. One an innocent, the other, a child too knowing; it explains quite a bit of Scotland's behavior, however. The shying, the hesitation, the lack of initiation for touch…

Gulping back a sob, he picks up his sister, causing the boy to stir as Scotland begins to drool on his shoulder.

"England?" The teenager yawns.

"Come up to bed, Patrick," he implores of the boy.

The teenager stops and stares down at the ground. "Can I sleep with ye?" he asks.

England reaches out ruffling the boy's red locks. "Scotland is, I don't see why you can't."

Looking up, his eyes shift nervously. "Is there enough room?"

England chuckles. "There's always enough room, more than enough, even."

Sheepishly, the boy grins back. "Okay, I guess."

Putting his hand out for taking and comfort, England murmurs, "Ready sleepyhead?"

Fingers soft and free of major blemishes, cling to his scarred ones. "Lead the way," North whispers.

Taking them up to his room, England settles himself between his little brother and sister, promising both in the silence he'll be a better brother; one that they can always come to.


	7. Chapter 7

Making sure the smallest raincoat they owned covers Scotland well enough to keep out the rain, England barely hears her ask, "Why are we leaving?"

Rolling up the sleeves of the coat, England chides gently, "I've told you before." Even so, he takes the time to explain again for his wary sister. "We're going because then we'll be less likely to get unexpected visitors that way."

The girl bites her lip. "Are we goin' ta Wales or Ireland?" she asks.

Taking a step back to inspect his work, England shakes his head. "No, maybe in few days we could go to see Ireland if you're still like this," he tells her.

"Where are we goin' then?" she questions.

Lost in fixing a line of buttons that didn't turn out as well as he first thought they had, England hardly hears her soft question. "Hm?"England murmurs, glancing up at the freckled face, he sees her eyes trying to shield her anxiousness. "Oh, just to a flat in Belfast," he explains, giving her a reassuring smile.

"It's _my_ flat," North sulks as he comes over with an umbrella in his arms and no coat. England sighs and shakes his head; he doesn't understand teenagers these days. What's wrong with wearing a coat?

Shooting a glare at the teenager, England says to him, "Yes, your flat, but _who_ pays for it?"

North winces and looks to his feet.

Looking back to his cagey sister, England hauls her up into his arms. "Come on, it'll be a lovely time," he promises while coaxing his younger brother to follow. Tossing the keys to the car at North, England tells him, "You can drive."

The grin he gets is by far the most dazzling thing he's seen from North in a number of years.

* * *

At first, Scotland stays curled in his side, but as she gets used to the car and driving, she unfurls enough to go look out the window. Face one of utter amazement, she turns excitedly to her brother and points to the great many innovations. "Look at _all_ the houses!" she exclaims. "And those two-wheel contraptions." Pausing in her chatter, the girl looks hopefully to England. "Could I learn ta drive one of those things? I see littler lads and lasses on 'em," she says.

England gently pulls her back into her seat and readjusts her seatbelt. "If you'd like to. I think North has a bike from when he was smaller at his flat."

From the front, North calls back, "I do." Looking back at them briefly, he adds, "Though, it'll be a wee big still."

Smiling happily, the girl insists, "I can do it!"

The two brothers laugh and England runs a hand down Scotland's back. "I don't doubt you could."

The car ride is very pleasant, if not quite long, and by the time they're at North's apartment. Scotland's fussing and tired (as is Northern Ireland). Ushering the two children up to the flat, England opens the door and looks in carefully to find it a bit dusty, but still in reasonable condition.

"Can we eat now?" North demands, as he nearly trips over a yawning Scotland.

England nods. "I'll call up some delivery, I think." As the boy flops down on his flat's couch and flips on the telly.

"Wicked," he replies as Scotland curls up at his feet.

Heading for the kitchen to fix some tea for all of them, England shouts, "Make sure you're watching age appropriate shows, Patrick!"

* * *

He wakes up to warm puffs of breath fanning across his jaw and glancing down, he sees Scotland curled against him and on his other side, North is half on the bed and half off the bed, snoring mildly. Sighing at all the extra bodies, England sits up gingerly and wonders why he ever thought a one bedroom flat in Belfast was the way to go.

Squirming out from beneath the children, England makes his way to the bathroom down the hall. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, England laughs. He has dark circles beneath his eyes and his hair is so messy he wonders if a brush will ever get through it again. Putting a scarred hand to the mirror, England wonders if he only feels old because of the children in the other room or, simply, if it's because he _is_ old.

Wistfully, he smiles at his reflection and whispers, "You aren't so old yet, are you?" Because there are still nations older than him, (France, Portugal, China, etcetera etcetera) It's just the revelations and stresses of the past few days that have really gotten to him. He'd forgotten how _hard_ having young children around is, how absolutely heartbreaking and heartwarming it is. Vaguely hoping Scotland's return to herself will happen sooner rather than later, England puts the bathroom's odd cup beneath the tap and fills it half way and downs it.

There won't be drinking tonight, he know.

Coming back to bed, he looks down on the two redheaded children and thinks they fit, all they need is Ireland and they'd be a perfect little family. Him and Wales have always been the odd ones of the bunch (him more than Wales, though), but England can't find any spite to feel about it. No, his brother is too dear to him. He's one of the last who still stick around and his sister too endearing at this point to ever hate. Muffling a yawn, England leaves the boy and girl to relocate to the couch for the rest of the night.

In the morning, maybe he'll have his big sister back.


	8. Chapter 8

"This way Wil!" England shouts to the tiny girl on the too big bike. The girl gives him a toothy grin and taking a wobbly turn, she squeals as her bike begins to tip. Before she can, though, North quickens his strolling pace so he's at Scotland's side in a second and helps her right herself again. Grinning at the two as they approach, England tucks his hands into his pockets and begins to walk on the other side of the bike. "How do you like cycling?" he asks Scotland.

"It's fun!" She laughs, face red from exercise and joy.

England chuckles. "I'm glad to hear it." Then, craning his neck to look at North, who has a hand on the back of the bike, he inquires, "What about you, Patrick? How are you holding up?"

North him a quick smile. "…It's not awful," he concedes.

"That's lovely to hear," Arthur says, looking around the little park. While not a bright and sunny day, it's not too cold and, occasionally, a ray of sun peeks through the gathered clouds.

Pedaling faster, Scotland wavers for a moment before correcting herself. "Can we come back 'morrow?" she asks.

"If it's not raining," England answers. Then, to himself, he mutters, "And you're still a girl."

Looking to his teenage brother, he inquires, "Know any good pubs around here?"

North bobs his head. "Yeah, a couple streets right o' here," he says, pointing at where the path turns into two.

Smiling at his brother, England does something he rarely does when sober, he tosses an arm around his brother's shoulder. North stares at him with a spark of surprise in his eyes. "Excellent," is all England says.

"Look!" Scotland shouts, pointing to a little pond. Stopping her bike, she gets off, leaving it by the path's edge to run to the pond. Kneeling down by pond's lip, she wraps her skinny arms around her legs and points to a mother duck and a gaggle of ducklings. "Aren't they sweet?" she coos, looking to her brothers.

Meandering over with North, England smiles at his sister. She's really a good girl. "They are," England agrees.

Wilma smiles up at him. "I'd take ya ta ponds sometimes when ya were very little," she says.

"Oh?" England mutters, thinking on it, he vaguely does remember spending quite a bit of time watching ponds (though, he always preferred fields where rabbits lived).

"Uh-huh." She nods, gazing at the quacking creatures bobbing in the water. "Ya were the only one who'd sit with me for mo' than a few minutes."

England hums. "I suppose we've always had more patience for things of that sort."

Scotland glances at him. "Yeah? Just us?" she repeats. England nods, not completely following.

Getting up from the ground and dusting the grass from her jeans, Scotland approaches them, taking England's hand in hers. "I like that," she informs him. "It's nice sharin' somethin'."

England squeezes the small hand and swallows hard. He wishes they could always be so open with another, in fact, he wishes he could be so open with _all_ his siblings. "I like it too," he whispers to her.

Wilma smiles eve brighter than before. "I'm hungry, are we goin' home soon?"

England shakes his head. "I thought we'd hit a pub, does that sound good?"

Scotland hums in contemplation. "I can have fish?" she tests.

England nods. "If that's what you want."

Scotland lets go of his hand and hurries to grab her bike. "Then let's go!"

Letting the girl take lead, Arthur and Patrick follow behind her after a shared, bemused chuckle.

* * *

Humming one of those songs she heard on the thing called a "radio" Scotland bounces between her two brothers. England told her not to ride on the walk, 'cause it wasn't polite, but said she could ride it again through the park on their way back to North's flat. She stops suddenly, staring at a man playing an instrument on the street. Watching, she smiles back when he grins in her direction. She feels England bump her shoulder. Glancing up, she sees that England is holding out what he called a "pound" to her in his hand.

"Tip the good fellow," England says with a wink.

Smiling at her brother, Scotland takes the money and drops it into the instrument's case.

"Thank ye," the man says.

Grinning toothily, Wilma bobs her head at him. "Ya welcome." Stepping back, she skips to her brother and takes one of his hands.

"Are there a lot of people like him?" she asks.

He nods. "Oh yes, even more so in London."

Scotland frowns. "But that's _his_ city," she whispers.

England looks at her, eyes clouding. "It was," he agrees, "but it's _my_ capital these days."

Leaning against his side, Scotland can't help but wonder if anything she remembers is still the same. "Do they look the same?" she asks.

Plucking her from the ground for a surprise embrace, England holds her with sudden ferocity. "No," he croaks. "Hardly at all."

Taking a breath, the girl takes comfort in this information. "Good," she mumbles. "I like that." Her Breath fanning across his neck, she murmurs, "It makes it seem farther away–longer ago."

She feels his chin tremble in her hair. "I'm happy for you," he says.

Pulling away, she looks into those painful, but favorite green eyes of hers and smiles wider than she ever has before. "I'm happy for _ya._ "

He stops and stares at her. "You mean that," he says.

It's strange, Scotland thinks. He seems so awed by this. Scotland, who's come to adore these big boys who feel so safe and gentle, can only smile a little. "I wouldn't say so if I didn't, would I?" she asks

Arthur kisses her cheek. She returns the gratitude one better, a peck to the nose. Everyone laughs.


	9. Chapter 9

When Scotland wakes up, she's more than a little confused and her mind's more than a little jumbled. Laying still, she feels a warm air ebbing and flowing across her face and around her middle she feels an arm clutching onto her. Shifting her head just enough to not intensify the throbbing in the back of her skull, she sees Patrick's face only millimeters from her own and moving her head again, she glimpses England's shock of blond hair, the only part of his him not hidden in the bed spread. Flexing her toes and then wriggling her fingers, Scotland takes in a slow breath and closes her eyes.

She's been… She's been a girl for a bit, hasn't she? A wee lass at that. Her heart flutters as she realizes how open she was with her brothers, how she told them what she–she _did_. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What is she going to do now? They're going to _ask_ things and _look_ at her! She can't _do_ this!

Fighting away the panic that seizes her, Scotland slip out of England's grip and, with great care, slithers down the middle of the small bed until she can get her feet on the floor and slump the rest of her body down into a crouch. Head spinning, she bites back a groan and takes notice of her clothes. Rolling her eyes at the way the too tight grown stretches over her chest, Scotland wonders how the potion could give her young self clothing, but not give her back her old ones. Grumbling, she sways as she gets up. Finding England's suitcase, she sifts through some of his clothes. Scotland snags a pair of jeans and a hoodie. Nothing will fit well, but at least it will cover her.

Once dressed, she steals England's car keys and hurries out of the bedroom. She hesitates at the flat's frontdoor, should she leave a note? Finding her missing will be quite a nasty surprise… Shaking her head (and cursing herself for doing it), she decides they'll be okay; the tiny nightgown on the floor and England's missing clothes and car keys will be enough for them to figure it out. Reaching her brother's car, she starts it up and grips the wheel. Scotland has a few things she needs to do, first, hit her house for some better clothes and then…

Then she needs to pay a certain _Frenchman_ a visit.

* * *

When he hears someone knocking at his frontdoor, France isn't surprised to see Scotland on the other side when he opens it. Raking his eyes over her, he leers. "My, my, 'avent you grown up _petite_?"

She glowers at him. "Shut yer ugly mug, none of that crap, ya hear?" she growls.

France leans against his door and pouts. "Does _mon lapin_ know you're 'ere?" he asks.

Scotland shifts from foot to foot, not answering.

Smile slicing across his face, France feels pleasure at the sight of the tell. "'E _doesn't,_ does 'e?" .

Scotland glares at him, those thick brows the isles are known for scrunched unbecomingly. "He ain't my keeper, he don't need ta know everthin' about me."

Leaning in so close he's nearly face to face with the woman, France breathes, "Oh, but _Angleterre_ was, _mon amoureuse_."

Teeth gritting in that familiar way, she bites, "Fer a week!"

Falling back, France considers her falsely. "Ah, but that brother of yours 'as always been soft towards children. 'E attaches far too easily to them."

Scotland's face turns red. Hand shooting out, she grabs him with a strength not bellied by her form. "Ya listen here ya _disgustin' frog_!" she hisses. "Ya don't tell that twat anythin', got it?" Scotland threatens.

Fingers coming to caress the fist wrinkling his shirt, France only grins. "Of course, _ma cherie_."

"Goddamnit!" Scotland shrieks."Be fuckin' serious fer once in yer goddamn existence!"

Hands coming to rest on either of her cheeks, France captures Scotland's vivid green eyes with his blue ones. "I _do_ mean it."

The woman quivers. "Really?" she whispers, "ya won't?"

"You're not-" he stops and bites his lip. Looking away from those desperate eyes, he says, "You're not the only one who's _ashamed._

Scotland gives a little laugh. "With the way ya go 'bout, some would think ya _revel_ in it."

France stares at her. "Better to conquer it then to 'ide from it," he says.

Wilma gives him a pitying stare. "Ya know that's not true, every time ya do it, ya're so scared that ya'll lose the control and it'll-"

"Stop!" Francis snaps. Seething, he sneers. "At least I don't shirk away from affection to the point that I can't even accept it from my _family_."

Wil looks away. "At least I still got family," she counters. "Where's that boy of yers? The girl? They don't come by much do they?"

France scowls. "Leave," he growls, "before I change my mind."

The woman gazes at him in the most understanding of ways and France finds he _hates_ it; _hates_ that he feels the same way about her…

"Goodbye, then," Scotland says.

" _Au revoir,_ " he returns through clenched teeth.

She turns away, hips swaying as she goes. France watches, swallowing thickly, he closes the door.


	10. Chapter 10

It's two weeks before England attempts to visit his sister. Two very long and difficult weeks. When he goes to her door, he almost doesn't expect her to open it if he knocks, not to greet him when he finally lets himself in. What he _doesn't_ expect, however, is to not find her at all.

"Bollocks!" he curses. "Where the hell are you, Wil?"

Anxiously, he tries to think of somewhere he might find her. Ireland's? Wales's? No, she probably doesn't know if England told them about the incident or not. Where then? Walking through her kitchen, he sees empty alcohol bottles of all kinds scattered on the tabletops and floor. Sighing, England runs a hand through his hair. A pub, that's where he'll find her. Now, which one?

* * *

England ends up searching not only the whole of Old Town, but New Town, and South Side before he finds her in a tiny pub tucked away off a main thorough way back in Old Town. Scotland's seated at the bar, several empty bottles around her. Sighing, England comes over and sits beside her.

"What are you doing Wil?" he asks.

Her bloodshot eyes meet his. "Lookin' fer me now, are ya?" she counters.

England frowns. "I thought you would appreciate some time to sort things out", he explains to her.

Downing the last of her most recent bottle, the woman spits, "Well, I bloody didn't."

His shoulders slump. "I'm sorry, Wilma," England whispers.

Scotland slams her latest bottle on the counter, cracking it in the process. "Don't tell me 'sorry', it don't mean nothing other than ya pity me, an' I don' _want_ none o' that!" she snaps.

England tenses. "What do you want from me then, Wil?" he demands.

She stops. "I want ya ta pretend none o' it ever happened," she whispers.

England looks to his hands. "Children are so precious," he says. "You try to give them everything–just so you can see that light in their eyes that says they're happy…" Fingers curling into fists, he goes on, "But, then, they reject you and everything you've given them and you know what? It hurts, because it means they're trying to erase you." Tears glistening in his eyes, England just stares helplessly at his speechless sister. "And, sometimes, it's the other way around; the child giving everything to that special adult or older sibling."

"Arthur–" Scotland starts.

"No!" Arthur snarls. "I've done both parts! I'm done with everyone trying to pretend I wasn't their family!" he yells. "I'm done Scotland!" Shooting up from his seat, England leaves the pub.

Scotland sits there, numb and despondent. Is that what her brother thinks? That she's trying to pretend they aren't family? That he didn't help her? That she didn't help him? Thoughts spinning dizzily in her drunken mind, Scotland realizes for the millionth time she doesn't understand her little brother (possibly, no one does).

Going home, Scotland doesn't even take off her shoes or brush her teeth before crashing into her crumpled bedding. She dreams of screaming, blood, and tearful green eyes.

* * *

Lighting a cigarette, France takes a deep drag before letting it unfurl from his lips. "I don't know why you keep coming to see _moi,_ " he says, "you should be talking to your _frère._ "

Eyeing him over her glass of wine, Scotland scowls. "That's a disgustin' habit," she grumbles.

The blond nation roles his eyes. "And your drinking isn't?" he counters.

Sipping her own glass of wine with twisted lips, Scotland snaps, "At least _my_ bad habit don't make _others_ sick."

A cruel smile rising on his lips, France hisses, " _Non,_ it just leaves you with emotionally stunted relationships."

Scotland flinches.

Sighing, France rolls his lips around the cigarette. "Look, _mon amoureuse,_ Rome 'urt us, but that doesn't mean you can force _Angleterre_ to pretend you were never a _bébé."_

With a defiant look on her face, Scotland says hotly, "I _do_ remember being a lass, I wasn't a _bébé._ "

France waves his hand. "That is beside the point," he replies. Stamping out his cigarette, he puts his hands on the table and says, "Now, your _frère_ is upstairs sleeping, go up and talk to 'im. I'll make dinner for all of us." Using his hand to push himself up and away, France heads into the kitchen, leaving Scotland open-mouthed.

With a great deal of hesitation and indecision, Scotland does go up stairs. She finds her brother in France's room, still dressed in the clothes he was wearing when she last saw him. Stopping in the doorway, she stares down at the young face and can't stop her chest from aching. He's really not all that old looking, but he's done so much more than even older nations had. Sighing, she comes to sit down beside him on the mattress.

Fingers coming to tangle in his unmanageable blond hair, Scotland is reminded of being a very tiny tot, watching her mother try and work out the tangles in her own blond hair. Eyes wandering down to the bushy brows, then to the thick lashes hiding England's green eyes, to his aristocrat nose, thin lips and the strong jaw that was familiar to all her family, she can't help but wish his face was more like their mother's, but less like it too.

"Ya don't know hard it is, boy," she whispers, "to look an' see Mum every time."

The statement is bitter, but her tone is warm.

Hand slipping down to his bony shoulder, she pauses before she shakes him. England can sleep a little longer, can't he? Scotland wouldn't mind waiting some more, it will give her time to think about what she is going to say to her brother.


	11. Chapter 11

He wakes feeling more content than when he fell asleep. Soon, England becomes aware of the sensation of a hand working its way through his hair, gently undoing the tangles in it. Still breathing slow and deep, England makes conscious decision to keep doing so as he lifts his eyelids a centimeter. In the end, his surprise ruins the peacefulness. He catches a glimpse of his sister's face, it's soft and sweet as she looks down at him, her fingers still weaving through his hair. He gasps and her fingers fist into his hair so hard it hurts.

"Scotland?" England whimpers.

The woman's hand detangles from his once again knotted locks. Guiltily, she pulls away from him, her face returning to it's usual cool state of reserve. "England," she says, slowly turning her body away from him.

England panics, not again, anything but this. "Don't!" he starts, reaching out and snagging her wrist. She turns rigid and shoots a sharp look on England, yanking away from him, she bares her teeth.

"Don't ya dare touch me," she hisses.

England drops his hand back to the bed and moves his stare to the opposite wall. "Why do you hate me, Scotland?"

He hears her breath hitch. "What?" she says.

England doesn't dare look at her, he just can't. "You always have," he murmurs, "just like everyone else–"

"Where the bloody hell did ya get _that_ idea?" she splutters.

Feeling more than angry with his far too confusing sister, England cries, "How do you think? You insult me, you try and hex me and when I was little, used to pelt rocks at me! Then, on more than one occasion, you've brushed me off or out right told me to fuck off!"

* * *

Scotland stares at England in horror. She didn't hate him–couldn't if she tried. Breath hitching wildly, she scrambles to find the right thing to say to her brother. She can't lose him, not the one brother her mother promised her to do right by. "I-" she begins, eyes wide and on England, who, at the moment, refuses to look her in the eye. Sighing, she looks down at her hands and imagines them smaller, even smaller than they were weeks before; barely big enough to hold a dagger, let alone a baby. She had held both, though, she had held both in each hand at the same time.

"I remember when ya were born," Scotland whispers. "It had been a hard labor, harder than Wales's. I remember that one too. She was dying even then…" Glancing up, she sees England still refuses to look at her face, but she's encouraged by the way his shoulder almost face towards her. "Ya were born bloody and screaming, but Mum took ya in her arms an' she laughed an' cried as she sang ta ya. Then, ya quieted so fast, I thought she was spellin' ya silent." Bowing her head, Scotland continues, "She called us all over then, an' she showed us yer wee face." She barks a laughs. "I thought ya were ugly, but Mum just said ya were just new."

Flickering her eyes up, she sees England's gazing uncomprehending at her. The slightest tremor coming to her voice, she pushes herself to tell England the most important part about his birth. "Mum had been sick a good while," she whispers, "so long that I'd gotten used ta bein' the one ta take care o' things…but no one wants their mother ta die."

England's looking at her now.

Taking in a deep breath, Scotland says, "She been coughin', coughin' so hard… I went to her an' helped her up. Blood was all over her hands an' I–ya know what she said? She told me ta do right by ya, told me ta take her dagger an' keep ya all alive." Tears slipping down her cheeks for the first time in years for her mother, Scotland says, "She died by mornin' an' I've kept my promise since."

Voice gruff, England growls, "Kept your promise did you?"

Scotland sees he's angry, but can't bring herself to feel upset about it. "Ya come ta France when things get bad, don't ya? Ya aren't dead, are ya?" she asks. Fingers clenching, she tells him, "I did my part, kept ya from the man who killed our mother an' made sure ya never had ta go through any of what I did."

"That doesn't explain why you are so cruel," her brother bites.

Scotland laughs. "Yer practically Mum's spittin' image. I couldn't stand it then and, sometimes, even now I can't."

England looks unimpressed (not that she expected much else).

Licking her lips, Scotland holds out a single beseeching hand to her brother. "I-I don't hate ya, I _do_ love ya. I do…" She feels completely silly and ineffectual, but her brother's eyes widen and his mouth parts.

He runs a hand through his hair. "God…Why do you always let things get so out of hand, Wilma?" he asks shakily.

Scotland can only shrug. "I wouldn't be me, if I didn't, now would I?" she says, cracking a bit of a smile.

Arthur grins back. "No I suppose you wouldn't be," he agrees. A nervous edge returning to his features, he implores one last time, "You don't hate me?"

"Never," Scotland says firmly.

Shyly, England offers, "I know you probably won't like to talk about him, and the things he did, but if you, I don't know, need someone ever, I could-could be there if you want."

Scotland takes her brother into a rare hug. "A good lad ya are," she whispers. "C'mon, France is downstairs cookin' us a meal." Hooking his arm to hers, she guides him towards the stairs. Their arms stay linked until they are forced to let go just outside the kitchen, lest France catch them. Though, if the way the Frenchman smiles throughout the meal is anything to go by, he probably glimpsed them at some point.


	12. Epilogue

With a glass of scotch in hand, England weaves through the gaggle of bodies in the middle of the room. If he gets up to his study now, he'll be able to spend most of the night there uninterrupted. Sighing as he gets away from the oppressive heat, England glances back once, it's not that he's not happy that all the children are here, it's just he hadn't been _prepared_. Who would have thought America could keep such a secret? A Christmas party at his home that he didn't know about until the guests began to arrive (what on earth was the boy thinking to throw it at _his_ house?). It had been a lot of yelling and confusion at first, but once England understood what was happening, he told the first couple nations to arrive to let everyone else who came in while he ran to the market to stock up on food.

America got an earful when he arrived, but everything–surprisingly enough–is going well. So far, there have been only three broken plates, one door knocked off its hinges and a minor accident where Australia fell off the roof while trying to put up Christmas lights with America and Ireland. That might not have been the best combination of people, England realizes in hindsight. Smiling as he shoves open his study door, he nearly drops his glass upon seeing Scotland leaned up against the window, staring out into the garden where some of the children were playing.

"Oh, I'll-I'll leave," he stutters.

Scotland pushes herself up from her slouch, eyes wide. "Ya don' have ta," she says.

Gazing at one another for a moment, England only decides to stay when his sister's lips quirk downward into a faint frown. "Okay," he reluctantly agrees.

Pulling over chairs for each of them by the window, Scotland waves her hand for him to come forward. "Take a seat, lad."

England does.

Jittery, the two don't look at each other in more than glances for a time. Eventually, England's eyes land on the scene outside; Hong Kong is lighting firecrackers for Sealand, Wy, and Northern Ireland. He should probably open the window and tell the children off for breaking one of his house rules, but he can't bring himself to ruin the youths' fun tonight. Smiling just a bit, he sips at his scotch. Je knows such moments can be few and far between, so, why should he ruin it?

"They're sweet, ain't they?" Scotland comments from her spot.

Startling, England's eyes land on his sister's wistful gaze. "Children always are," he replies.

Something a little darker edges into her slight smile. "Ah, ta love children, if only everyone could," Scotland murmurs.

England shifts uncomfortably in his seat, senses on alert. Is this it? Will Wil tell him about what happened to her at the hands of Rome? "Is there something you want to… talk about?" he asks, voice cracking.

Scotland appears confused for a moment, but, then, she laughs. "Nay, I don't believe I ever will," she informs him.

Feeling just a little put out at the rejection, England drops his gaze to his lap. "Oh," he whispers, flitting his stare about the room. England then asks, "What are you doing up here, then?"

She shrugs. "It was a little ta much fer me downstairs," she admits and, for the first time in a long time, England feels a kinship to his sister.

"Too hot, wasn't it?" England says with a quirk of his lips.

Scotland smirks. "I don' know about hot, but it _was_ loud."

They give small snorts of laughter and look each other in the eye. After a breath of silence, England inquires, "What was it like being a child for a second time?"

Scotland's stunned for a moment, falling back in her chair, her eyes once again drift to the children outside. "Odd," she says, but then she shakes her head. "It was good," she admits. "All that practice came in handy, I suppose. Ya weren't a half-bad older brother."

England can't hide his beaming smile and, for her part, Scotland thinks he deserves to be elated.

Soon, the smile turns to a cringe, then, a frown and before she knows it, England is outright sobbing like a baby. Worried, Scotland puts a hand on his knee. "What's wrong? I didn't-"

England holds up a hand and shakes his head. "N-No," he whimpers, "it's the n-nicest thing an-anyone's ever said…"

Perturbed, Scotland gapes. "What? I know people say mean things ta ya, but, really?"

"All I wanted! All I wanted was to know I was good at _something_!" England cries and it clicks for Scotland.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, mustering up a lot of courage to hug him. "We've always been so caught up in our own hang ups…"

England's green eyes are brilliant as he squeezes her back. "I don't mind," he whispers, "all I care was that you said it."

Exhaling, Scotland brings their chairs together so they're touching and she rests her head on top of her brother's blond mop. "You're welcome," she replies.

They fall back into quietness and watch a snowball fight slowly unfold outside. It starts with just the kids, but then the older ones from inside trickle out until its an outright riot just beneath the cold window pane. Together, brother and sister watch the people raised as siblings behave as they should, with attentiveness, competitiveness, and most importantly, _joy_.


End file.
